


Cracked Perfection

by idmakeitbehave



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, but spencer is a lovely patient person, reader is just a tad emotionally constipated tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idmakeitbehave/pseuds/idmakeitbehave
Summary: You don’t let people in―you don’t knowhowto let people in. It’s always‘I’m fine, perfectly alright, thank you very much.’Spencer wants to see behind the curtain.  He wants to know you―to really, truly know you. Maybe one day you might just let him.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 143





	Cracked Perfection

The widely held belief of just about everyone in the BAU is that Spencer knows everything. It seems fitting—eidetic memory, above-average IQ, inhuman reading speed. It’s not a wild assumption to make.

It, however, would be false.

Putting aside the fact that it’s actually impossible for one human to know _everything_ —how does one even begin to quantify everything?—Spencer wants to know everything.

Well, not quite everything.

He doesn’t want to know how many times he’s failed: failed to live up to expectations, failed to make a difference, failed to stop the inevitable. He doesn’t want to know what it is about him that makes everyone leave, that leaves him alone time and time again. He doesn’t want to know how it feels when you fall and there’s nothing to catch you besides the cold, unforgiving ground.

Those are the things he desperately wishes he didn’t have to know, the things that he would erase from his unrelenting memory if given the chance.

But you? He wants to know _everything_.

Everything—the memories you keep closest to your heart, what keeps you up at night, the story behind the scar on your left knee. He wants to know why you always carry the same book with you even though you never seem to read it. He wants to know why you always pretend that you’re alright when he can tell that you’re not, why you don’t let yourself show any emotion besides _perfectly fine_. He wants to tell you that you don’t have to pretend—not with him. He wants to know everything, everything there is to know.

But you won’t let him.

It’s not that you’re unfriendly or unkind to him, to anyone. Not at all. You’re wonderfully warm and terribly charming and god, if Spencer doesn’t just about lose it every time you elbow him in the side or laugh at your own jokes. He had never understood the notion of eyes being able to sparkle, never quite gotten the poetry of it, until he met you. Every time you ruffle his hair it takes everything in him not to reach out, to grab your hand, to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, to—to everything. Everything that Spencer most decidedly does _not_ do, has never wanted to do, has never thought he would ever want to do. You make him want everything.

All of this is just a long-winded way of saying that he’s in love with you.

Or at least, the parts of you that you allow him to know. The pieces of you that he can get close enough to, the ones that you don’t keep locked down, hidden from view. The ugly, the tear-stained, the broken bits? Those are the ones that never seem to rise to the surface. You keep them buried, pushed down so far that you can almost pretend they don’t exist. Those are the worst pieces—those are the ones that would break the facade, would show everyone just how damaged you are. How unlovable.

Those are the pieces Spencer wants to know the most. Those are the pieces he wants to _love_ the most.

He doesn’t know how to explain it, but he knows there’s something there. There’s something about you that makes him feel as though maybe, just maybe, he isn’t quite so alone.

It’s not like Spencer’s entirely alone, don’t get him wrong. He has the team—they’re his friends, his _family_. He loves each and every one of them and (he has finally started to believe) they love him too. But none of them quite get it—quite get _him_. There’s no reasonable explanation, no solid way for him to articulate this gut feeling that he gets when he’s with you. When he gets just close enough to the walls you’ve built that he can _almost_ peer over the edge, can almost see down into the abyss. There’s just this feeling.

This feeling that maybe you just might understand him.

Maybe he’s being ridiculous. Maybe he’s just projecting his wishes onto you, onto his warm and charming and funny coworker. His _friend_ —at least he thinks you’re his friend. But, the more he overthinks it, the more he convinces himself that you’re not. Maybe that’s why you won’t let him get closer. Maybe that’s all this is. He’s in love with you and you don’t even want to be his friend.

Spencer’s being ridiculous.

*

Spencer is wrong. It doesn’t happen often, but contrary to popular belief, it _does_ happen.

Spencer is quite wrong. You definitely want to be his friend. Actually, you want more. As much as he’ll give you.

You want it, but you don’t think you can have it. You don’t know how to let yourself have it, to let Spencer in. To let anyone in, really.

But you decide you can try. You’ll do anything to get closer to him. And god, do you try, but it’s so very hard. With every step forward it feels like there are at least three steps back. Every time something happens, even just the tiniest thing, and he asks you how you’re feeling or what’s wrong, you get _so_ close to telling him—so close. But you can’t. It won’t come out right. Instead, it’s always _I’m fine, great, really._

It’s just easier that way. Better, even.

At least it should be. But there’s just this aching, gnawing feeling in your chest; it feels as though you just might burst from all that you keep inside, from the exhaustion of always having to pretend. Of keeping those walls up. But then you think about what will happen if you break them down, if you let Spencer see inside.

He’ll leave. He’ll run.

It’s not like him to run—not at all. You know Spencer. You _trust_ him. He’s a kind man, the kindest person you know, really. He’s caring and honest and just so, so wonderful. There’s no logical reason to believe that he’ll run.

There’s no logical reason, just past observations. It’s what always happens. It doesn’t matter how kind and caring and _beautiful_ he is.

He’ll run.

They always run.

Or maybe, to be more accurate, you always make them run. You push them away, force them to leave. It’s just the only way you’ve known. The only way you’ve _allowed_ yourself to know.

You tell yourself that if you keep a safe distance, if you hold Spencer at an arm’s length, then at least he won’t run. At least you’ll still have him in your life.

Maybe not in the way you want him, but you’ll take anything you can get. Anything, as long as it’s with him.

*

Months pass and that distance proves to be difficult to keep. Despite your best efforts to keep those walls up, it seems like it may just be impossible. You’re drawn to one another, and though Spencer tries to tell himself that you’re just being friendly, your playful shoves seem to linger, your hands card through his hair much longer than strictly necessary. You start spending more time with one another, as much time as you can. You watch movies late at night, get coffee on the weekends, sit together on the jet—Spencer trying (and failing) to teach you how to play chess.

He’s your friend now—maybe even your best friend. You should be happy with that.

You should be, but you want more. You want more, but you can’t have it.

This thought occupies your mind one morning as you’re slumped over a pile of paperwork, blinking away sleep as voices drift by.

“Come on, man.” It’s Derek. “You can do it. Just ask someone. Anyone—how about her?”

You spin around in your desk chair, far too nosy to let this conversation go unheard. Spencer’s standing next to Derek, the latter motioning to an agent from Counterterrorism who’s walking by. They’ve stopped in front of Emily’s desk and she’s watching them with a smirk. It takes everything in you to bite back a giggle as Spencer’s voice jumps up an octave. “No, no, I—I don’t want to.”

“Don’t want to or can’t? Pretty boy, I think it’s about time you got some action. Just one date—maybe it’ll lead to a little somethin’ somethin’—”

Emily barks out a laugh. “You’re gross.”

“Oh, _I’m_ gross?” Derek crosses his arms, leaning onto her desk. “I’m just trying to help the kid out.”

“Your advice wouldn’t work on a _carrot_ , much less an infant like _Reid_. He needs to ease into it.”

Spencer clears his throat. “Um, I’m right here, guys?”

They ignore him. As is to be expected. Bickering ensues as the two of them try to prove that _their_ way of getting a date is the superior way. Spencer just stands there shuffling awkwardly and looking so, so uncomfortable.

You make your way over to them, giving Derek a little smack right on the top of his head.

“Ow,” he says, glaring as he dramatically rubs his head. “What was that for?”

“Leave Spence alone.”

Derek’s eyes light up at those three little words. “Oh, okay, I see how it is. Are _you_ trying to give the genius some dating advice? Come on, give it. I wanna hear.”

“Oh, shut up. I have no advice to offer.”

“I see, so you think Reid is _beyond_ help? That’s cruel, even for you, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen despite Derek’s teasing tone and Spencer watches as your fingers pick at the hem of your cardigan—one of your tells. You’re suddenly nervous and he can’t quite figure out why. “No, I—I don’t…”

Emily, however, apparently can. “Oh,” she says, her voice hushed in a way that makes it feel _way_ more dramatic than it needs to be. “Have you—have you never dated anyone? Like _anyone_?”

Derek laughs. “No way, that’s not possible.” And then he catches your eye. “Wait, _seriously?_ What’s the holdup?”

Your eyes dart everywhere—everywhere but at Spencer. “I just—I, uh…” Your voice cracks. “Don’t we have work to do?”

“Oh no, no, no.” Derek holds up his hand. “You are _not_ getting away with it that easily. Spill.”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“ _Nothing?_ Not even like a high school crush? A first love kind of thing?” Emily lets out a dreamy sigh. “I still remember mine, she—”

“ _Emily_ ,” Spencer all but hisses. She looks up just in time to see you rushing past them, practically sprinting out of the room, head down and eyes trained on the floor.

Derek sighs, running a hand across his face. “Shit,” he groans. “We went too far, didn’t we?”

Spencer glares at him. “You _think_?”

Emily opens her mouth to apologize but Spencer’s off and running after you before she can get a word out. He tries not to overthink the fact that he knows _exactly_ where you’re going—the empty office in the back hallway that’s been relegated to storage—as he hurries down the hall. That office has become a sort of hiding spot for the two of you, a place where you both go when you just want to get away, to be alone—alone together, at least.

It’s an interesting kind of feeling, being alone together. Wanting to be away from everyone and everything except each other. There’s a sort of solace to be found in that, an escape that’s found with another person. Someone who understands you, who knows exactly what to say or when it’s better not to say anything. You’re that person for Spencer.

He can only hope that he’s that person for you.

He holds onto that feeble hope as he enters the cluttered office, finding you exactly where he expected—on the floor next to a pile of boxes, leafing through the lost and found absentmindedly. You do it when you’re upset, when you’re trying to distract yourself from feeling. Spencer’s known you long enough, knows you well enough, to know why you do it.

But today? It seems as though you’re unable to stop the emotions from taking over, from finally pushing through to the surface. You wipe your face in a fruitless attempt to hide the fact that you’ve been crying, one solitary tear still trailing down your cheek—something Spencer thought he might never see. That you would never _allow_ him to see.

He sinks to the floor beside you, gently taking the coaster with a _quite_ unflattering photo of Hotch on it from your hands (which he’s almost one hundred percent certain that Hotch hid in the lost in found in lieu of throwing it away—no one, not even the bossman himself, dares to incur the wrath of one Penelope Garcia). “Y/N, what happened?”

Your response is automatic. “Nothing. I’m overreacting.”

“Y/N, please. You can talk to me.”

Spencer doesn’t really expect a response. The two of you have become close friends, best friends even, and yet you still haven’t let him fully in. There are the late-night conversations and the laughter and the jokes and even all the hair ruffling in the world, and yet that seems to be where it stops. You never tell him how you’re feeling, much less show him that you’re feeling anything but _great, fine, perfectly alright, thank you very much_.

This is why he is so very surprised when you ask, “Do you even know what it’s like to be in love, Spencer?”

If Spencer didn’t know you better, he would think that you had spoken those words with malice, voiced them as an accusation, even. It’s not. It’s a question, honest and sincere and perhaps the most vulnerable he’s ever seen from you.

Back to the question at hand. Does he know what it’s like to be in love?

He didn’t.

Not until he met you. He had thought it just wasn’t meant for him—love. It had seemed like such an unfamiliar, unattainable concept, always just out of reach. It had seemed like something that was meant for other people. For better people.

It was such a constant that he had almost grown used to it, to this idea of emptiness. But now? All he wants is time with you—any time you’ll give him, be it a minute, an hour, a lifetime. (He doesn’t dare let himself linger on that last one for more than a moment. Right now he’d settle for a minute. Maybe two.)

The thoughts are rushing through his head, wild and uncontrollable as a river, but he can’t seem to find the words, can’t seem to even open his mouth. If he does, the dam will break and you’ll both drown in what is most decidedly a sea of _too much_. Spencer’s always been too much.

Instead, all he can do is stammer uselessly, the words refusing to come out as he watches you fight back tears.

“Because—because I don’t,” you say, completely unaware of Spencer’s inner turmoil. “I don’t—I don't know what it’s like to—to have someone know me, like _really_ know me, and love me despite it.”

“Y/N—”

“No, Spence. I’m not trying to be melodramatic, to be all ‘woe is me’ or something. It’s just the fucking truth. I just, I don’t know how to let people in, how to stop being so… so alone.”

“Y/N, you’re not alone. And people love you.”

You glare at him, somehow still the slightest bit intimidating despite the tear stains on your cheeks.

“I mean it,” Spencer continues. “You’re part of this team, this family. And—and we all love you.” He’s so close, so close to saying the words that have lived in the back of his mind for so long. They’ve made their way to his throat, make him swallow thickly as he tries to push them back down. “Y/N, I—”

The door swings open, slamming into the wall with a bang so sudden that you jump up from your spot on the ground.

Fate has intervened.

Fate, in the form of Penelope Garcia.

“Oh my gosh,” Penelope says, biting her lip as her eyes dart between you and Spencer. “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt. Well, I guess I did… but, anyway, there’s a case! Roundtable in five.” She spins on her dangerously tall heels, shooting one last glance Spencer’s way before heading down the hall.

The room is silent, full of thoughts you can’t get out and words you already wish you hadn’t said. “Forget it,” you laugh, though it’s an empty, bitter sound. “I’m being ridiculous.” You open the door, motioning for Spencer to go first. “Let’s go, Spence.”

*

Time continues much like this—Spencer keeps trying to get closer and you keep almost letting him. _Almost_ , but not quite. You’re practically inseparable now. You have that at least.

The two of you spend almost every free minute outside of work together—your weekends are full of bookstores and coffee shops and picnics in the park and movies on his couch. Every time you fight the urge to put your head on his shoulder, your hand on his chest. It’s as if there’s this gravitational pull, this natural feeling of needing to be next to him, to touch him. But you don’t let yourself. If you do and he rejects it—rejects _you_? If you ruin this perfect friendship? You don’t know what you would do if that happened. Shatter completely, perhaps.

Not that you would ever tell him.

Maybe you should. Maybe you should just give in, just go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?

That’s rhetorical, of course. You know.

You know, but the more time you spend with him, the more you fight the urge to reach out and grab his hand, the more it seems like maybe it’s not worth it. Like maybe all of this distance, all of these walls aren’t worth it.

Like maybe you don’t have to be quite so alone.

You tell yourself this, and yet it feels as though your heart is going to stop when Spencer sits up abruptly. “I need to tell you something,” he says. The two of you had been reading in silence in your living room, him on the couch and you sprawled on the carpet.

You prop yourself up on your elbow, and all it takes is one look at him to know what he’s going to say. You don’t know how, but you just know it. And suddenly all you know is that he can’t say it.

He can’t say it because he doesn’t. Because it’s not real.

It can’t be.

“Y/N, I lo—”

“Stop.”

His mouth snaps shut. Of all the times he’s imagined saying these words to you—and he’s imagined it _plenty_ —he never thought you would cut him off mid-sentence, that you’d be unable to even meet his eyes. “What?

“Don’t, Spence,” you say under your breath. “Please.”

All at once, it feels as though Spencer can feel his heart breaking, shattering into pieces so small that he’ll never be whole again. All of his worst fears, all of the awful possible outcomes that he’s played out over and over? None of them compare to this feeling.

This feeling that he’s about to lose everything he’s ever needed.

“Oh.” The tremor in his voice gives him away instantly. It feels like you can see right through him, right to the heart of him—the irreparably cracked heart of him. “I’ll… I’ll go.”

Spencer goes to stand, prepared to retreat to safety, to find somewhere to lick his wounds—preferably for the rest of his life—but you grab his hand, yanking him back down. He lands on the couch with a thud. “No, please don’t go. Please. It’s not—it’s not that.” He waits for you to continue, watches the way your hands shake. “I—I love you, Spence. So much that it scares me.”

There’s a pause as Spencer blinks at you, your words ringing in his head. They don’t quite feel real. Spencer wants you to say them one more time, wants you to say them over and over again.

“You love me?”

You nod, your gaze trained steadily on the floor. “Yeah. I love you.”

“Then why… why won’t you let me love you?” It comes out a whisper, broken and cracked.

You finally look up, your tear-filled eyes meeting Spencer’s. “You won’t.”

“I won’t what?”

“You won’t love me. I’m a disaster, Spence. A fucking _disaster_. I—I’m too much. Too much for anyone to love.”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s clearly not what you expected to hear. “What?” You shrink back, arms folded around yourself, nails digging into skin as you try to brace yourself, try to prepare for the inevitable. For the goodbye. They always hurt, but you somehow have a feeling that this one will hurt the most.

But that’s not what you get.

Instead: “I—I’m sorry that someone ever told you that you were too much. Y/N, nothing about you is too much. If anything, I want more of you. _All_ of you. Any—anything you’ll give me.”

You’re blatantly staring at him now, eyes wide and soft and so, so vulnerable. “Spence.”

Spencer finally dares to sink to the floor beside you. There’s a moment of hesitation as he fights with himself—the voice in the back of his mind is telling him not to touch you, not to get too close for fear that he’ll scare you off and you’ll run away for good. His heart, though? It wants to grab your hand, to grab it and never let go. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me about how you’re a disaster.”

You choke back a laugh before catching the stern look on his face. “Oh… _oh._ You’re serious.”

“When am I not?”

That earns him an elbow in the side, which he tries (and fails) not to read too much into. That’s a good sign, at least. Maybe all is not lost.

Maybe.

“Y/N, you’re my best friend. You can tell me anything. I swear to you.”

“Okay,” you sigh. “You ready?”

Spencer nods, eyebrow raised. He didn’t really think this would work, didn’t think this far ahead. He just wants you to talk to him, to really talk to him. He wants you to tell him anything, _everything._ At least he did until right now.

Well, he still does. Now he’s just a little scared. There’s the teeny, tiny, microscopic chance that you’re going to tell him something truly horrible—like maybe _you’re_ a serial killer.

Alright, now Spencer’s being _really_ ridiculous.

“Okay,” he says with more confidence than he’s feeling. “Hit me.”

 _That_ earns him another elbow in the side. (He should have seen that one coming.)

He squeaks and now you’re full-on laughing, struggling to catch your breath. Spencer can’t help but stare at you, wonder how you do that—how you go from crying one second to joking and laughing with tears still on your cheeks the next. And, mainly, how you manage to look breathtaking each and every way.

“Okay, okay,” you wheeze. “Case in point: disaster.”

Spencer glares at you. (Or rather, he gives it his best attempt. It doesn’t quite work.)

You just sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. Spencer just about jumps at the contact, though he does his best not to move. It feels as though you’re a wild animal—any sudden movement and you’ll be gone, scurrying back to your hiding space.

“Okay, Spence. Let’s see…” It takes you a moment to find the words, to gather up the courage to say something, _anything_ at all. “Alright, so—okay, I’m going to start with the really stupid stuff.”

“Nothing about this is stupid.”

“Sh, let me be pathetic in peace. Okay, so… I want a pet, right?”

Spencer lets out a hum of agreement, waiting for you to continue.

“Like just a fish or something. Anyway, I want one, but I _can’t_. Like, I just can’t have one. Because it’s going to die. It’s inevitable. And it can’t die because—I don’t know why, I just can’t deal with it. Which is fucking _insane_ because we literally see death every goddamn day, but I can’t handle the idea of a dead fish? I—” You look up with a start. “Oh god, I’m monologuing, aren’t I?”

He shakes his head. “No—well, yeah, kind of. But I asked you to. Keep talking. Please.”

“You’re the _worst.”_ You groan, but you giggle as you say it, your head dropping back down to Spencer’s shoulder. “I don’t know what else to say, Spence.” You catch the side-eye he gives you. “I’m _serious_. Okay—um, well, you probably figured this one out from that time I freaked out on Derek and Em, but I’ve never dated anyone. Like properly dated anyone.” You sigh, picking at a loose string of your cardigan. “Every time they get too close, I just… I sabotage it. Like I—I pick fights and I push them away and it’s like… like I ruin it on purpose so that I don’t have to be caught off guard when it ends badly. So that way I don’t hurt as much.”

“Y/N…”

You pause, inhaling sharply. “And that’s just… that’s just the surface level bullshit. I never… I never tell people how I feel—or _let_ myself feel anything, to be honest. I don’t want them to see anything because it’s scary. _I_ don’t want to see anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like—if I pretend I don’t feel anything, then I can’t get hurt. Then nothing will hurt. Like, Spence, I literally just hold it all in until I _burst_ into tears. But I still always make sure to do it when I’m alone, so no one can see me.”

“Y/N.” Spencer’s voice is barely a whisper. You’re blinking back tears again and he finds himself fighting the urge to reach out and wipe them away.

You let out a defeated groan. “It doesn’t work.”

“I know.” Spencer begins. You open your mouth to speak, confusion washing over your face, but he continues. “No, Y/N, I _know._ I—I used to try so hard, so _damn_ hard, to not let anyone in. To not let anyone see. I still do. It seems easier that way, but it’s not. It’s just lonely. And Y/N, I want you to know me. I want to know _you_. _All_ of you—even the parts that you think are unlovable. Because they’re not. I promise you, they’re not.”

You’re quiet for a moment, just staring at Spencer. You want to believe him, _need_ to believe him.

He starts to take your silence for rejection, tries to prepare himself for the inevitable, for the goodbye. But then you finally speak. “I don’t want to sabotage it—us. I don’t want to ruin us.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know you, Y/N, and I believe in you. And you’re right. It _is_ scary to let people in, but it can also be really, really worth it.” Then Spencer does it. He finally, _finally_ takes your hand in his. “I think _we’d_ be worth it.”

“You do?”

He nods with the most certainty he’s felt, well, _ever_. “I do. What about you?”

You lace your fingers with his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I think so too.”

A heavy sort of silence settles over the room, thick with the weight of what’s just been said, of what’s just been done. After all this time, all of this effort spent dancing around what has been right in front of you, it just feels… right.

Your head is on his shoulder, his hand is in yours, and suddenly everything is as it should be.

“I love you,” Spencer whispers. “Okay?”

“Okay. I love you, too.”

*

It was worth it. Of course, it was.

Spencer didn’t run away. And he never will.

It takes time, but that’s alright. When your walls start to go back up, when you try to hide how you’re feeling, to pretend that everything’s just fine? He waits, always patient, always there. He reminds you that it’s okay to cry, to scream, to _feel._

He lays with you in silence on the kitchen floor when the world feels like it’s too much to bear, when the weight of it all threatens to suffocate you. He bakes cookies with you at four in the morning when you can’t sleep, dotting each other’s noses with flour and laughing like fools. God, he even _drives_ for you, windows down and music up as you scream your heart out to your favorite songs. It took a little convincing, but he sings along with you now, and if you didn’t already know that you loved him, the little off-key lilt of his voice would be the nail in your metaphorical coffin.

Eventually, he even convinces you to get that fish; he takes you to the pet store and everything, holding your hand as you peer at all of the tanks before settling on one brilliantly purple betta fish—aptly named Raymond.

( _“He’s going to_ die, _Spence!”_

_“Yes. And you’re going to give him the most wonderful life.”_

_“Ugh… fine. But you’re going to be my shoulder to cry on.”_

_“Duh.”)_

_*_

Spencer was right. (It happens _much_ more often than you care to admit.)

You understand him, and he understands you. You show him all of it, all that you can—the ugly, the tear-stained, the broken bits. He isn’t scared, isn’t frightened. He doesn’t run away. Instead, he meets you there in that darkness. He holds your hand, walks alongside you.

You let him love you and he knows that he’ll never take that privilege for granted. Besides, he has his own darkness too. (Don’t we all?) And you don’t run, don’t judge. All of those haunted memories, all of those things that Spencer wishes he could forget? They don’t seem quite so bad with you by his side. It feels as though he can get through anything.

You see him, and he sees you.

He wants to know everything.

And you want to show him.

* * *

_“I know sometimes  
it’s still hard to let me see you  
in all your cracked perfection,  
but please know:  
whether it’s the days you burn  
more brilliant than the sun  
or the nights you collapse into my lap  
your body broken into a thousand questions,  
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.  
I will love you when you are a still day.  
I will love you when you are a hurricane.”  
―Clementine von Radics _


End file.
